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The cold wars

Well, the heat is back on. But still, it’s cold.

Just last night, I was trying to make dinner while wearing gloves, which isn’t so easy. I’m accident prone and not too dexterous to begin with, so you can imagine what ensued. Yes, the gloves are now charred and splattered with tomato sauce.

So why, you may ask, am I forced to endure these frigid conditions? Here’s why (she says, with an undercurrent of quiet rage in her voice): the husband insists on keeping our house a chilly 70 degrees.

Being forced to live in arctic conditions does not suit me at all. I am not an Eskimo.

So here is how this situation is being addressed. Let me illuminate with a summary of our nightly ritual. We go to sleep, space heater in the bedroom, blasting its comforting warm air and humming white noise. I fall asleep, with a smile on my face. At first evidence of my peaceful slumber, the husband furtively slips out of bed to turn the heater off. I wake up a couple hours later, shivering, and turn it back on.

This goes on for hours, which does not lead to a good night’s sleep.

I figure I have four choices here: a. wear him down by standing my ground and repeatedly raising the thermostat to a cozier temperature, b. install a sensor device on the space heater to prevent the impudent fiend from turning it off, c. spring for an electric blanket or d. move out.